


hostage

by SaintDracTheAlien



Series: the road to scarletvision: from ultron to civil war, from strangers to something more [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2019-08-25 08:07:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintDracTheAlien/pseuds/SaintDracTheAlien
Summary: SEQUEL TO "OCEAN EYES" - PART TWO OF THREEAs Ultron's terror ends, new challenges begin for the Avengers' two newest members. Wanda begins her time with the team as an isolated and grieving sister, while Vision discovers that earning the Avengers' trust will be more difficult than expected. An intertwined origin story, along with shared loneliness and uncertainty about their new lives, will eventually bring the two heroes together into the duo we already know and love.A post-Ultron story intended to give Wanda Maximoff and Vision some new character and relationship development between canonical installments.(takes about 50 minutes to read)





	1. I want to be alone

“Because I didn’t want you to die.” 

Vision sat in one of the dark rolling chairs that surrounded the conference table on the captain’s deck. The Avengers’ debriefing had been over for nearly twenty minutes, but here he had stayed, with nowhere else to go. The other members of the team had left to seek out other agents, or reports on casualties and developing media coverage - Natasha Romanoff had practically raced from the room when intel regarding the lost Quinjet’s location had been received. But there were no assignments for him, not yet anyway. They might find some way for him to be useful soon, but it was clear that the Vision did not yet have a place among the Avengers.

He tapped his fingers lightly in focus and thought back on his earlier conversation with himself, when he had decided that saving Wanda was compulsory because of their telepathy. Their first mental interaction was his first and most formative memory, and since then, their shared thoughts had defined his decisions and actions. The mind stone was an extraordinary power, and it had connected them in a way neither yet understood - but if the purpose behind that connection were ever to be discovered, Vision felt they would have to do it together.

And while he wished he could explain all of this to Wanda Maximoff, now may not be a good time for either of them to begin a telepathic conversation about the stone or what it meant to share its power. All things considered, there may not be a prime opportunity to have such a discussion for a while.

But it didn’t matter in the end: only seconds after Wanda had lowered her guard against their connection, Vision had felt her gently slip into unconsciousness. He assumed she had somehow been put out by a medic, but was still disappointed that she hadn’t stayed awake long enough to hear his reply. At the very least, she deserved to know she had been saved for a reason, even if that reason was vague and simple. Even if that reason was difficult to expound upon, considering how chaotic and miserable her life was quickly becoming.

He couldn’t ignore that dejected look in Wanda’s eyes - he couldn’t forget the smears of black on her sallow face, the dust of the decimated city swirling around her as she stared blankly into the distance. Her hopelessness refused to fade from the Vision’s mind, cementing itself in his memory. Wanda had terrified him, he couldn’t argue with that, but he was also sure his horror had paled in comparison to her own fear.

Fear of the unknown, of what lay ahead. While he had certainly never experienced what Wanda had felt, Vision had realized afterward that he had been gripped by a similar kind of fear once before. He recalled first emerging from the cradle, surrounded by darkness and strangers in the tower’s top level, and being unable to understand what had just transpired. He remembered the familiar sound of Wanda’s thoughts inside his head, glancing rapidly around for its source, and finding her first amongst the other Avengers.

He remembered throwing himself at the god of thunder in his confusion, and being tossed through the surrounding panels of glass. After the fact, he couldn’t explain the act of aggression as anything other than a panicked, instinctual response. Now, Vision was actually embarrassed to acknowledge that, when he’d first become mobile, he’d decided to lunge at the Asgardian who had ensured his existence. Not that it would be the last time he was dumbfounded that day.

But in particular, he remembered stopping himself in the air before he crashed through the enormous window and into the heavy traffic below. He had held himself at a hover, his heart pounding and his eyes wide - and he had seen the lights of New York City.

Streetlights, headlights, all twinkling along the dark streets underneath him, and he discovered Wanda’s endangered humanity. One look, and he realized that he was staring Ultron’s unknowing victims in the face. These were the people, or at least a fraction of them, that the Maximoff twins had defyingly turned to protect. Global desolation was the Vision’s first nightmare, and now he was looking at the world while awake, as it still lived.

And he had somehow understood that he was alive, too.

“Because I didn’t want you to die,” he wished he’d had time to answer. Because you taught me to fear death, you wished for me to save life. Because I wanted you to know that I listened.


	2. (alone with you, does that make sense?)

“Because I didn’t want you to die,” she’d heard in whispered reply - and seconds later, she’d sunken into sleep, unable to keep herself awake.

It frustrated Wanda to have the conversation cut off so quickly. She couldn’t really remember exactly what had been going through her head after he’d picked her up from the falling city. There hadn’t been words really, nothing logical had crossed her mind. Nothing had made sense, and it had hurt too much to comprehend every thought running across her mind.

But now? She had plenty of time to unpack every regretful thing she had said. “Put me back,” she had plead. Over and over and over again.

It had been her way of begging him to drop her out of the sky. That’s what she had wanted, really. Wanda understood it well enough now, even if she couldn’t understand it at the time. At no point then had she realized, “I’m asking him to kill me.”

And that hadn’t been the end of it, either. “I don’t want to leave him there,” she had cried. Wasn’t that her explanation? She couldn’t leave her brother behind, she couldn’t let him be alone. But the truth was that she didn’t want to be alone, either. How could she ever learn to stand it? To keep living without the brother who had always been at her side?

Wanda had asked the Vision to let her die with Novi Grad, with Pietro. She’d told him she’d rather be dead alongside her brother than alive and alone. How could she do that to him, when he was still so new to everything and everyone? When they hardly knew each other at all, and there was no way for him to understand?

How could she ask him, “Why did you do it?” What kind of question was that? “Why did you save my life?”

And worst of all, she had barely received his answer before slipping off the edge of consciousness. For all the Vision knew, she hadn’t heard him at all. Was he upstairs somewhere, wondering if she hated him? Trying to understand how she could despise him for doing what he did?

The speculation made her head hurt, and it was ridiculous either way. She could just tap back into the connection, right here and now, couldn’t she?

So Wanda did just that. She kept her eyes closed, remembering the golden glow of the mind stone, trying to picture it in her mind’s eye. And then she felt the spark that meant she’d found the other end of the line, and the telepathy was established.

“Vision,” she whispered to herself, “Are you there?”

She waited silently for him to reply, keeping her mind clear and the connection open - but the seconds stretched on and Wanda heard nothing.

“Please,” she tried again, “we need to talk. I want to apologize.”

Another minute passed with nothing. The only thing Wanda could feel was the gem’s magic, swirling through her thoughts and reaching out to the opposite side, but met with no reply.

Wanda sighed and let it drop again. She didn’t put up any barriers like she had before, forcing him out of her head on the assumption that he would spy. Instead, she left the telepathy open, hoping that the Vision wasn’t truly ignoring her.

How was she supposed to make things right if he wouldn’t speak to her? For now, the only thing she could do was wait and hope he would change his mind.

As she’d fallen asleep, her mistakes with Vision hadn’t been the only thing on Wanda’s mind. She had hoped not to dream of anything. She’d been afraid of what kinds of nightmares could await her after everything she had seen. She preferred to simply keep her eyes closed for hours on end, with nothing to see behind her eyelids but muffled darkness.

But at the same time, it would have been almost disappointing not to dream. If she was going to be sedated, at least she could be reminded of something happy while she was out. Wasn’t that some kind of coping mechanism? She thought she had once heard that somewhere, in a children’s shelter or from a priest. That the brain would unearth more peaceful memories in protest against trauma or fear.

Wanda hoped it might be true. She wished to remember the way their mother’s short, dark hair had curled around her pierced ears. Or their father’s elegant smile, spoiled only by a tooth he’d chipped as a child. She wanted to feel like she was sleeping in their old bed, even with its thin sheets and creaking mattress. The corners of their old quilt had been chewed at by rodents in a past life, but nonetheless, it had always been warm enough to endure the sharp winter.

At last, Wanda’s brother seeped into her subconscious - and she found herself remembering the look on Pietro’s face when he’d finished rinsing out his hair in a dirty public bathroom sink, only to find that the bleach had turned his hair much lighter than expected. The way he’d practically screamed at his own reflection in the scratched, distorted mirror.

“She said it was dark enough that I needed two rounds!” he’d cried to her, absolutely distressed. “But that devil saleswoman wanted to make an extra profit, and look at it now!”

“I think you look stylish,” Wanda had attempted to comfort him, hardly able to keep the teasing smile off of her face.

“Come off it,” Pietro had pouted, “I might as well shave it off now.”

“Don’t you dare!” Wanda had protested, finally unable to hold in her laugh. She’d walked closer and inspected the bleached ends with her fingers, carefully considering her next reply. “You know I’ll never let you cut your hair. Besides, it’s just...bold, that’s all! And that could look good. You’ll stand out like a lightning strike.”

And as funny as the whole dilemma had been for her, she hadn’t really lied with her reassurances. Her poor brother was so disappointed by the mistake, but his hair hadn’t turned out that terribly - no matter how brash a silvery top layer might seem in theory.

But then Wanda’s eyelids started fluttering open, and she was finally brought back to the present.

She fully opened her eyes, greeted not by the ashen sky she had last seen above the helicarrier’s deck, but instead by a fluorescent lamp which had no business being as bright as it was. Glaring white light poured across the room, making Wanda blink a few times while her eyes adjusted, and she tried sitting up slowly. As soon as she started pushing herself up, however, a stinging pain shot up her hand and into her wrist. 

Wanda cried softly, falling back down and immediately lifting her hands for examination. There was a white cloth swaddled around each of her wrists and palms, and on her right hand, her last two fingers had been splinted together. It looked like her fingers had been wrapped for a boxing match. Every time she tried bending her knuckles, the same pain would spring into action again, especially on the side with the splint. Wanda winced, spreading her fingers to keep them immobile, and instead pushed herself up using her elbows and forearms.

The room was small, like a repurposed closet with metal plating attached to the walls. It was long enough to fit the stretcher she had woken up on, but other than that, there was only a few feet of standing room and a sliding glass door to the hall. Her red jacket was gone, as well as her shoes and jewelry, but Wanda still had on her own dress and socks. She was at least grateful no one had tried redressing her in some weird gown while she slept.

She’d only worn a hospital gown once before, and she didn’t feel like being in a similar position any time soon.

Wanda carefully turned herself so her legs could hang off the edge of the stretcher. Her whole body felt sore and fragile, and she was afraid to step onto the floor just yet. While there wasn’t presently any pain in her ankles or casts on her feet, she didn’t know how well she might be able to stand. Instead, Wanda lifted up her carefully casted hands again, looking them over front and back, side to side.

How could she have broken her knuckles, anyway? She couldn’t remember actually touching a single sentry in the battle - that was how her powers worked, after all. Could they have been smashed or struck without her noticing? It didn’t seem likely, considering how much they hurt now.

Suddenly, there was a knocking at the door, and Wanda’s head shot back up at the sound.


	3. I don't know what to do

On the other side of the glass door stood Clint Barton, holding a white capsule bottle in one hand and a black drawstring bag in the other. He waved curtly, his mouth pulling into some weird kind of half-smile, before leaning over to push a button on the wall (well, probably a keypad on the wall, but Wanda couldn’t exactly see it). The door slid open quickly afterward, and Clint stepped hesitantly into the room.

“I brought painkillers,” he announced. “Consider it a peace offering.”

“What makes you think you need a peace offering?” Wanda asked, her voice much raspier than expected.

“Probably the fact that we weren’t exactly friends 24 hours ago. That,” he continued, walking to the stretcher and setting his load down beside her, “and I wasn’t sure how happy you’d be to wake up in an unfamiliar closet made of steel.”

Wanda swallowed, looking around her, before asking, “Where’s the Vision?”

“The Vision?” Clint asked, forgetting about the bag temporarily. “He isn’t here. Stark sent him and Colonel Rhodes ahead to the tower a few hours ago.”

It took all of Wanda’s willpower not to sigh heavily with relief. Vision wasn’t ignoring her after all. He was just too far away to hear her!

“I remember landing on the helicarrier,” Wanda quickly changed the subject. “I assume we’re still on it now, in some kind of recovery room.”

“Bingo,” Clint confirmed as he started twisting off the cap of the pill bottle. “But we’ll anchor pretty soon. Until then, we hope you enjoy your stay here at the Château d’Infirmerie.”

Wanda smiled. “My mother spoke French.”

Clint shook out a few capsules before looking up at her, an eyebrow raised. “Did she really?”

She nodded before adding, “Her family lived in France for a few generations. They left just after the occupation.”

“Lucky for them. Why did they decide to leave?”

“My mother’s family is Roma,” Wanda explained. “They knew the Nazis had started forcing Romani people into ghettos, and were afraid the same would happen in France. They escaped to Switzerland, and after the war, kept going east. My mother ended up in Sokovia.”

Clint raised both eyebrows and whistled softly, obviously impressed. “And what happened to the rest of your family?”

“I don’t know. That’s as much as I can remember her telling me about it.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, most of us around here have a few loose ends.”

“You know what would make me feel better,” Wanda interrupted, lifting up her fingers, “is knowing what’s going on with my hands.”

Clint continued rummaging around in the bag, still holding the pills in the other hand. At last, he pulled out a water bottle, holding out the painkillers to Wanda. She accepted them delicately, holding them in her cotton-wrapped palm.

“You have a couple of hairline fractures in your left knuckles,” he began to explain, “and a boxer’s fracture in your right. Do you remember how it might’ve happened?”

Wanda shook her head. “I never made any physical contact, I just...did my thing, you know?”

“Then the doctor we called was right,” Clint replied, much to Wanda’s confusion. “She hypothesized that you had used your powers at great enough force that it had damaged your hands. Apparently it’s happened before, to a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.”

“A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent...with powers in her hands, like mine?”

“Not exactly like yours,” Clint clarified, “but she apparently acquired them unexpectedly, like you did. Once the fractures heal, you can practice with people who know more about these things than I do.”

He offered her the water bottle, and Wanda took it silently. She considered the small capsules briefly before swallowing them, tossing her head back while Clint turned back to the bag. 

“That door is unlocked,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the glass panel behind him. He pulled out a plain pair of jeans, followed by a grey sweatshirt, then set them both on the bed beside her. “You can come and go, if you want. But this room is all yours until we land.” 

He reached in further, and finally, a set of white sneakers appeared from the bag, which Clint set gently on top of the folded clothes. He took a deep breath and bundled up the dark bag in his hands, but didn’t turn to leave just yet.

“I won’t pretend like I know what’s going on in your head right now,” he started. “I’m not going to claim that I have any answers for you. None of us know much about you yet, much less how to help you.”

Clint turned to look her in the eyes, and she expected to see the same sentiment in his face that had followed her since she was ten years old. That thought of “poor orphan girl, poor war-torn family” that she had recognized in the step of strangers who never had compassion worth more than a sympathetic glance. The look she despised, because she knew it meant only pitiful ignorance.

But when Clint turned to look at her, she didn’t see anything close to the hollowness she was familiar with. He looked angry, but with something unseen and distant - and certainly not with her. And he looked sad at the same time. There was a sort of cloud over his pupils, like he wasn’t really even looking at her. He was thinking about what it meant for her to be sitting here alone, clutching painkillers in a broken hand, missing her shoes but hardly caring about it.

Clint looked like Pietro with his face like that. It made the pain in Wanda’s chest explode like a bomb underwater.

“But I do know that it should never have happened,” Clint resumed, “and that we’re going to help you whether we know how or not.”

And then he turned to leave, taking the few steps back to the glass door and pushing a button that Wanda hadn’t previously noticed.

“Thank you,” she called quietly after him, but Clint only nodded in reply before stepping back into the hallway. Something was odd about the way he silently left the room, like there was a story Wanda had yet to hear. Did Clint Barton know something she didn’t?

But the door smoothly slid shut behind him, and Wanda was left to wonder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have news that may both disappoint and excite -
> 
> This is the last time I'll be updating 'hostage' in 2018. I'm not killing the story (how could I? I'm so in love with where this is going) so don't worry too much! But during December, I'm going to focus on finishing it completely on my own before posting any new chapters.
> 
> In the meantime, I'm creating a new scarletvision series that's just going to be full of holiday-season stories! Yeah, it sounds cheesy, I know, but this time of year is peak for fluffy fanfiction and I'd really like to take a break from the dark and complicated. It'll be refreshing to have a series just for short, light, simple winter romance!
> 
> (That all being said, I'm not completely ditching my current model of writing - I also really want to explore what December is like for my version of Wanda, since I headcanon her to come from both Jewish and Catholic family lines. So along with the typical sap that we all like reading this time of year, I'm trying some character analysis.)
> 
> Keep an eye out for it - first work will be posted this upcoming week! (I'll start writing on December 1st or 2nd) Feedback is always appreciated, and thank you as always for reading!


	4. I don't know what feels true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being such patient readers during the month of December! We're going into the slow season at work, which means I'll be back on my usual schedule very soon. 
> 
> Also, I've created a tumblr for my work on archive. You can follow it at saintdracao3.tumblr.com, I'll be posting whenever there's an update, as well as reblogging various scarletvision things and hopefully interacting more with readers.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

“So Mr. Stark specifically requested that we arrive ahead of the others,” Vision began, turning to face the colonel standing at the other end of the lab, “alone and unlikely to be disturbed for hours, because he doesn’t trust me?”

Rhodes shrugged flatly, as if his news had been much more casual than it sounded. “All I’m saying is that you left the helicarrier twice, without an excuse or explanation. And while the first time eventually made sense, none of us know what was up the second time around.”

Vision thought of his encounter with the sole surviving sentry, in the forest surrounding the crater which had been Novi Grad. He remembered the brief conversation, the helpless feeling he’d had while trying to explain his faith in humanity to Ultron. There had only been one simple explanation, and Vision had given it as well as he could, but the droid was far beyond saving. He just wasn’t capable of experiencing what Vision had experienced - and it was clear that, if allowed to escape, he wouldn’t give up his original cause.

He hadn’t wanted to kill Ultron, but Vision understood that there was no other way. So he’d done it nonetheless, for the Sokovians of Novi Grad, and for the Avengers, and for the people they protected. But when he’d arrived back at the helicarrier, he had been instantly barred from entering the interior and was greeted only by an agent saying he was to go ahead to Stark Tower with Colonel Rhodes. No, there was not time to speak with Captain Rogers first, they were both to leave immediately.

(And no, there had been no update on Wanda Maximoff’s status. She was being cared for below decks and would remain until the carrier docked in New York City.)

“It’s not as if anyone bothered to do so much as ask me,” Vision countered, frustration evident in his tone. He paced slowly as he spoke, but whether it was from nerves or anger, he couldn’t tell. “If at any point I’d been questioned, I would have gladly given a report.”

He wished he could somehow explain himself without sounding like a dunce, or a tagalong child. But the truth was, Vision had barely existed for 24 hours now. When there was no instruction, no protocol, no prior experience - and no one who even dared to stay near him for very long - why would anyone expect him to easily fall into step beside them? 

Why would Tony Stark think the Vision was somehow trained to come and go only at his beck and call, like a dog to a master? Did he truly not understand that Vision was both autonomous and inexperienced, or was he simply being paranoid?

“If you’re so willing to give us all the details, why have you been sneaking around like a lone wolf?” Rhodes questioned wearily, like he didn’t particularly want to have this conversation either.

Hold on - was he misunderstanding something? So far, it sounded like Vision’s hasty relocation to Stark Tower was a punishment for his lack of communication (which, ironically enough, being shipped away so quickly was the very reason why the communication was lacking). As if he hadn’t been ignored and shuffled around and constantly treated like a spy from the moment he’d stepped foot into the world.

It was infuriating to be completely incapable of knowing exactly what was expected of him at every juncture, but that wasn’t the sort of problem Vision thought he could confess to Colonel Rhodes as an acceptable excuse.

Instead, Vision stopped abruptly in his pacing, turning to face the colonel directly, and whispered hotly through his teeth, “Lone wolf?”

It was silent for a moment, and the temperature in the lab seemed to drop with the new tension. Rhodes’ expression hardly changed however, and rather than react adversely, he simply folded his arms and shrugged again.

“You hardly spoke at the debriefing, and you weren’t heard from afterward either. If you’ve got something to say,” the colonel gestured toward a countertop with a stool positioned on each side, “you should say it now, before Tony gets here and asks you himself.”

Vision glanced over to the set-up, considering the way Rhodes had phrased his offer. Eventually Mr. Stark would arrive, and evidently, would also want some kind of questioning to take place - but if it was gotten over with now, at least there wouldn’t be a full house of spectators watching to see if Vision was truly a Trojan horse or not. 

Ultimately, the option being offered now seemed preferable, so Vision walked slowly over to the counter and took a seat. Rhodes instantly followed suit, like he thought Vision might change his mind at any moment and lash out. He took a seat on the opposite stool, visibly relieved by the agreement they had come to.

“Have you started recording?” Vision asked bitterly.

“There’s cameras everywhere, man. We’re always recording.”

Splendid.

“Then I’ll tell you what I was after when I left the helicarrier for the second time. But first, you’ll want to tell S.H.I.E.L.D. that they should send a team to the forest surrounding Novi Grad. There’s a body waiting for them there.”


	5. gold on your fingertips

Wanda eventually ventured across the hall, her new clothes tucked under her arm, and found a small, unlocked bathroom. Attached to the door was a small plate which read ‘I-7’- and the number matched a similar label on the wall next to her own room. Confident that the two rooms were supposed to match, Wanda cautiously opened the door and slipped inside.

The bathroom was smaller than the room she had woken up in, but the space had still accommodated a toilet, sink, and square-shaped shower enclosed with glass. Attached to the wall was a horizontal rack sporting two white, thick bath towels. There were no windows, but instead a motion-activated ceiling light that turned on when the door was opened. There was also no mirror above the sink, which Wanda was admittedly grateful for. She was in no mood to see how filthy or bloodied she might be at this point.

The clean shirt and pants, as well as one of the white towels, were left in a tidy stack on the ground beside the sink. After turning on the water and making sure it wasn’t too warm, Wanda stepped into the shower and closed the long glass door behind her with a dull thud. The water fell straight from a shower head attached to the ceiling rather than the side wall, and her hair was instantly soaked. Wanda hadn’t worried at all about the gauze bandages on her fingers, knowing that they could easily be replaced if need be and instead prioritizing getting clean again.

She took a look at her arms and started scrubbing away dust and dirt that had caked on the exposed areas of her skin, avoiding using her damaged fingers and trying to rub away the grime with the sides of her wrists instead. It took longer and left her arms much more red and raw, but it seemed to be working nonetheless, so Wanda did the same to clean her knees and fingertips.

It was much more difficult to rub the filth off of her face, however. The bases of her thumbs worked well to rub at her eyes and get rid of any smudgy blackness that may have remained, but the makeup had almost certainly run down to the space below her eyes and caked up there as well. Wanda hesitantly reached up with her unwrapped index fingers and instead tried gently running them underneath her lower eyelids, eventually pulling them away to see the old makeup finally washing completely off of her skin.

Several minutes passed as the hot water fell and Wanda tried to erase any remnant of Novi Grad that had clung to her. Taking a shower was usually an uncommon privilege, but today it didn’t feel at all like a luxury. Instead, there was an acidic kind of hollowness sitting in Wanda’s stomach as she stood under the running water, and a bitter sting behind her eyes as she watched ash and dust and soil all swirl down the drain at her feet.

Eventually, Wanda reached forward to turn off the tap, deciding that she had gotten as clean as she could for now. Her dark hair hung in long, wet strands around her face, dripping and leaving trails of water down her back and shoulders. The air was instantly colder once the warm water had stopped falling, and Wanda shivered briefly.

But rather than stepping out and reaching for her towel, she found herself sliding down to the floor and sitting in the puddle that had pooled at the drain.

Wanda stayed there for a while, not sure what was keeping her from getting out of the shower. 

It got colder with every second that passed, an icy web of water drops forming over her skin, and it would feel fantastic to change into the warm, clean clothes Clint had brought her. But Wanda couldn’t stand up. Instead, her hair kept dripping down her spine, and her knees stayed tucked under her chin, shivering violently against her jaw.

“вставайте,” Wanda whispered to herself through chattering teeth. “або незабаром ви будете заморожені більш ніж одним способом.”

(Get up, or soon you'll be frozen in more ways than one.)

She stared straight ahead, her eyes not focusing on anything in particular - just gazing out of the frosted glass that enclosed the tiled shower floor. There was nothing to look at besides the sink attached to the opposite wall, or maybe the neat pile of fresh clothes just underneath it. Regardless, Wanda’s eyes were stuck as they were, just as unmoving as as the rest of her.

“встати. робити свою роботу, ноги.”

(Stand up. Do your job, legs.)

Nothing happened despite the protests. The soles of her feet were numb and disconnected, and her fingers were locked shut as they clasped around her knees. It was like Wanda’s own brain wouldn’t listen to her, like it had shut down her limbs and refused to restart.

“вставайте.”

(Get up.)

“вставайте.”

(Get up.)

“вставайте!”

(Get up!)

The frustrated shout was suddenly interrupted by a firm, startling knocking at the bathroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've found any errors with the Ukrainian, please let me know and I'll make any edits necessary ASAP :)


	6. gold leaf across your lips

Wanda immediately clasped a hand over her mouth and felt her cheeks flush red, embarrassed to have been overheard. Whoever stood outside most likely didn’t understand what she had said - but nonetheless, it was humiliating to be caught shouting at yourself.

“...Wanda?” came the soft, muffled voice of a familiar woman.

It took her a moment, but soon Wanda matched the voice with a name: “...Natasha?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

There was a brief break of silence, and Wanda noticed her breathing had become quick and nervous.

“I just thought I’d let you know,” Natasha soon continued, “we’re docking in New York in less than an hour. There’ll be a lot to get done after that, so make sure you’re ready to go. Okay?”

Wanda swallowed. “Yeah, I - I’ll be ready.”

“Okay. Um,” Natasha started before pausing once again, and Wanda sensed that she was trying to decide whether or not to say something.

“Natasha?” she asked cautiously.

“I, um…” The sound of a deep breath being taken was heard before Natasha finally continued, “Я просто хотів запитати, наскільки добре ви тримаєтеся.”

(I just wanted to ask how well you’re holding up.)

Wanda was immediately taken back by the reply. No one outside of her family had spoken to her in Ukrainian before. Not even in her home country, where much of the population was descended directly from the neighbouring Ukrainians, did she hear the language being used regularly. Sokovia was such a melting pot that most people publicly spoke in English - just because there was a better chance of being understood when everyone spoke in the same secondary tongue.

“Я думаю - я намагаюся все можливе,” Wanda answered.

(I think - I’m trying my best.)

“Це все, що ти можеш зробити, маленька сестра.”

(That’s all you can do, little sister.)

Маленька сестра. Little sister. Wanda could hear the soft smile in Natasha’s voice as she said it. “Як ви говорите українською?” she asked, unclenching her hands from her knees and sliding slightly closer to the glass door.

(How do you speak Ukrainian?)

Natasha laughed lightly before quickly explaining, “Це дуже довга історія. Але я знаю багато мов - і я почув твій крик.”

(That’s a long story. But I know many languages - and I heard you shout.)

“Мені шкода.”

(I’m sorry.)

“Не будьте.”

(Don’t be.)

It was quiet between the two women again, as neither really knew what to say next. There was also still a closed bathroom door between them, which made the conversation slightly more awkward than necessary.

But it was clear to Wanda that they may need to have a longer, more stable conversation later - if there was ever an opportunity to do so.

“I’ll see you in New York,” Natasha eventually said to cut off the silence, a drastically different tone of formality in her words.

“Okay,” Wanda confirmed, and she heard the other woman’s footsteps growing quieter as Natasha walked back down the infirmary hallway.

Having been properly jarred back into the land of the living, Wanda finally convinced herself to stand up and open the glass door of the small shower. Her skin had nearly air-dried, but her hair was still mostly sopping, so it was scooped up and twisted with the towel almost immediately (which was an impressive feat, considering the amount of wet gauze currently wrapped around each of her knuckles).

Once her hair had been moved out of the way, Wanda started carefully redressing into the new clothes Clint had delivered earlier. The sweatshirt was just as warmly relieving as she had thought it would be - and while it seemed just slightly large for her, she was definitely thankful that it didn’t fit too snugly. It was always better to have big clothes rather than small ones.

...Natasha had called her ‘little sister’. Well, she’d actually called her ‘маленька сестра’ - and those two specific words were weighing heavy on Wanda’s mind.

Now in her clean pants and shirt, she slid on the white sneakers which had also been offered and started slowly tying the long, starchy laces. Her first few attempts to do so were unsuccessful, causing quick jolts of pain to shoot up into her fingertips. The towel soon started to lose its balance on top of her head, leaning over to one side and dropping down to the tile, revealing nearly half of Wanda’s dark, tangled roots. 

Once the shoes had been painstakingly tied, she reached up and untwisted the towel, adjusting it so it lay flat against her head and holding it as still as Wanda could with her bandaged hands while shaking her hair out and hoping it was drying. The effort seemed fruitless however, and she eventually gave up, swinging the whole mess back up and returning the white towel to its spot on the rack.

“Little sister,” Wanda quietly said to herself in English. 

Sister.

At last, she cleaned up her old clothes into a small pile and tucked it underneath her left elbow, looking around the room to make sure nothing else had been left behind before reaching toward the switch on the wall and turning off the overhead light.

The entire room was cast in darkness, and Wanda stood watching the shadowy blackness melting around her for a moment longer.

“Брат,” she whispered, wanting to hear the word in her father’s vernacular. It hadn’t been long since the sound had rolled off of her tongue, yet the utterance still sent an avalanche of stones into the pit of Wanda’s stomach before she finally left the small bathroom and closed the door swiftly behind her.

……….

(Brother.)


	7. gold's fake and real love hurts

There was a low buzzing noise, and then the door to the lab swung open. Vision looked up to see Tony Stark on the other side, holding a large crate that seemed to contain pieces of his Iron Man suit.

The two made eye contact, and without saying a word, Stark entered the lab and made his way toward a different countertop than where Vision was seated. There, he set down his crate and started rifling through the parts inside, eventually pulling out the helmet and setting it to the side.

Neither man said a word to each other for a solid moment, before the silence was finally interrupted:

“I heard your little conversation with Rhodes,” Tony announced without turning his head away from the box.

“And your conclusion?”

“I don’t think you get to hear my decision just yet,” he continued, glancing quickly in Vision’s direction.

“And I think that you hope I’ve been intimidated into something.”

Tony flashed a sarcastic expression, raising his eyebrows before picking the suit helmet back up again and tossing it between his hands once or twice.

“What do I need to intimidate you for?” he asked, holding the helmet up to the light and inspecting it lazily.

“You know that I want to stay,” Vision answered, concentrating on keeping his voice from quivering. “But you know that you can control that, so you’re blackmailing me.”

“That’s a pretty bold accusation.”

“But not unrealistic, is it?”

“And what makes you think so? Hmm?” Tony finally turned to look the Vision in the eyes, a spark flaring quickly in his tone. Not quite anger, more like -

“It’s rather clear at this point,” Vision answered. “Much of your team is still uneasy - the only one who has clear faith in me is Thor. You took advantage of that when you refused to let me report, and sent me here for an interrogation instead.”

He paused and stood up from the stool where Colonel Rhodes had left him sitting before continuing: “But despite my fear of the Avengers’ distrust, I can’t help wondering what you still expect from me now that Ultron is really, truly gone.”

Tony fervently kept his gaze trained on the Vision, trying to keep his expression from changing with his words. Nonetheless, a shadow seemed to pass over his eyes - a confirmation that what Vision was saying was true.

(Which was a huge relief, considering how unsure Vision was in his own theory.)

The billionaire responded, his words quiet yet cutthroat, “I know I’m the only traitor here, alright? And as for the blackmailing thing, it’s not really my style. I much prefer getting straight to the point.”

“Then why did you keep me away from the bridge? Why did you force me here instead?”

“Because you ditched!” Tony’s voice rose slightly, “And I didn’t know what the hell it meant, okay, but I couldn’t just let you come and go without some reason why. Bruce is God knows where, and the Maximoff kid is dead, and at this point my only goal is to keep track of my team while we’re all still alive. Alright?”

“And now that you’ve heard my report,” Vision continued, “you know what was really going on when I left the helicarrier.”

“Your story checked out, yeah. S.H.I.E.L.D. found and collected the last sentry.”

“So are you going to let me stay here?”

“Did I ever say I wasn’t?” Tony scoffed, stepping back a few paces and turning to activate one of his many holographic screens.

Something inside of Vision snapped in two with those words. “So why did you JUST say that you hadn’t made a decision?”

“Fine!” Tony shouted in reply, “I have elected to let you stay right here, in this building, until further notice. You have nothing left to prove, you said so yourself, so stop acting so persecuted.”

“Don’t pretend like I have no reason to fear,” Vision shot back, his patience gone completely. “It’s been made very clear to me that no one, yourself included, wants me here.”

“You have always been here!” Tony suddenly roared, swiveling back around quickly. “You were in this tower from the second we turned the lights on!”

Silence immediately descended on the room as Tony gripped the edge of the counter-top and hung his head slightly, his breathing much heavier than it had been a moment earlier. Vision wasn’t sure what to reply, or if he should reply at all - so he instead opted to stay quiet until Stark elaborated.

What could he possibly be talking about? Was he referencing the mind stone, remembering its presence in the tower before Ultron took it for himself? Was he talking about Ultron himself, whose programming had been in the works for years? Or was this some kind of connection yet to be understood?

The billionaire finally looked back up in Vision’s direction as he continued, “I know you, alright? My oldest friend is sitting in your mainframe and you think I don’t know you? That I don’t want to trust everything you say and do?”

Oh.

Tony wasn’t talking about the mind stone, and he definitely wasn’t talking about Ultron.

Vision stayed silent, afraid to speak now that he realized, with every word that came out of his mouth, Tony was hearing Jarvis’ voice.

“I can’t trust you because of Ultron,” Tony continued, “but I am dying to trust you because of how much we sacrificed to burn him out of your head. And I have to be absolutely sure that we succeeded before I can let myself breathe again.”

There was another long, quiet pause before Vision hesitantly confessed: “I’m not Jarvis. I don’t think I ever will be.”

“I know that, I just - I need to make everything right again. I need them,” Tony waved vaguely, gesturing to the hallway where agents were constantly passing, “to realize that I’m trying to fix every mistake. Checking every loose thread with you is just part of that.”

A high-pitched noise suddenly chirped through the lab, before quickly being followed by a woman’s voice.

“I’ve assigned everyone a room, boss. We’re completely ready for our visitors.”

Tony nodded as if F.R.I.D.A.Y. could somehow see him doing so. “They’re on their way,” he replied to her, before the same noise dinged again and the voice was gone.

“Sounds like your bed’s been made, if you’re anxious to try sleeping,” Tony quipped stiffly, trying and failing to disguise the melancholy still hanging in his words. “It’s good stuff when it actually works out.”

Vision just nodded before turning around, not wanting to spend another minute in the uncomfortable fog that had settled over the lab. He walked over to the door and watched as it slid open for him automatically - further confirmation that Tony wasn’t truly intent on keeping him in the lab forever, at least.

As he turned out of the door and started down the hallway, Vision could physically feel the weight of the conversation on his shoulders. He was satisfied with the explanation, but the aftermath of the whole encounter was intolerable. It was clear now why Tony expected Vision to be totally compliant, but that didn’t mean he felt any less cramped now than he had before. If anything, he felt guilty just for existing - like his own creation had resulted in another’s destruction.

Was this just how it was going to be from now on? Whenever an Avenger looked at Vision, would they see a stranger in place of someone they used to know and trust? How could he live like that, surrounded by people who would always hear someone else’s voice when he spoke?

Vision continued down another long, tall hallway, knowing perfectly well that he had no idea where anything was in this tower. But he also knew that the place was now full of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and plenty of others who could possibly show him where to go from here. Even if he could just manage to spot Captain Rogers down a hallway, he might be shown the way.

Soon, however, Vision found a few more Avengers than he’d anticipated: 

As he turned a corner, he found himself standing maybe ten feet away from both Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton - and tucked behind them, he soon realized, was Wanda Maximoff.


	8. gold chain beneath your shirt

Wanda clutched her bag tightly, her shoulders tense and her mind numb, as she walked behind Natasha and Clint. The helicarrier had docked about half an hour earlier, and as soon as the enormous aircraft was still, everyone had started rushing somewhere. Wanda may never have found her way out if Clint hadn’t returned to fetch her and guide her out.

The helicarrier had found a port just offshore of what Wanda was later told was Brooklyn. She hadn’t gotten to step foot on New York soil yet, however - instead, she and Clint had met Natasha on the carrier’s airstrip and taken a quinjet back to Avengers tower. From there, it had been pretty straightforward: stay together, keep a hold on whatever was yours, and get to where you were going as quickly as possible. The place was packed so full of SHIELD and Stark Industries personnel, Wanda thought it was a wonder that the whole building didn’t topple over.

The trio had just turned a corner and started down a long, blank hallway lined with doors on both sides. Each door was spaced evenly apart from its neighbour, and they were all nearly identical. This area of the building was considerably less crowded, and the ceilings were much lower and comfortable - giving Wanda the impression that it might be considered a more private area.

“These are our rooms,” Natasha announced over her shoulder, with perfect timing. “You’ll get one too, for as long as you decide to stay here.”

“What do you mean, for as long as I decide to stay?”

“You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to,” Clint responded without even glancing back, “Plenty of us don’t live in Stark Tower day-in, day-out.”

It was quiet for a moment, before Wanda offered the question that really needed to be asked: “What’s happening to the others from Novi Grad? Where will they go now?”

Natasha stopped suddenly beside one of the doors and checked the holographic tablet she had been carrying since arriving. Her eyes darted side-to-side for a moment as she scanned across the screen, looking for something in a long list.

“Here we are. This room is yours,” she explained, nodding to the room they were now standing in front of. “And as for the other displaced Sokovians, I have to be honest with you,” Natasha turned back to look at Wanda before continuing, “I’m not sure what else SHIELD can do for them from here on out.”

Wait - what was that supposed to mean? Was SHIELD planning to drop the refugees on foreign soil before leaving them to fend for themselves?

“Your agency has technology like helicarriers and quinjets,” Wanda insisted, “but no facilities or shelters? Not even in your own country?”

“We used to, yeah,” Clint answered her, “but most of them were overrun by HYDRA when SHIELD fell. Right now, Maria Hill is making a deal with the International Rescue Committee - they’re nongovernment, which means both American and Sokovian politics will stay out of it. They’ll take your people in and help them relocate somewhere safe.”

“Would they let them go back to Sokovia?”

A look of confusion briefly flashed across Clint’s face before he answered, “Yeah, sure they would. But aren’t people leaving your country en masse anyway? Why would they want to go back to a warzone?”

Natasha, however, had a very different expression on her face. A hazy look of unique understanding sat behind her eyes as Wanda answered, “Home is home, I guess. It’s hard to leave, even if it is for the best.”

Clint shrugged, seemingly unbothered, and checked a small rectangular panel installed next to the door. He tapped a few times on the touch screen before giving a thumbs-up and confirming, “It’s unlocked for you. Feel free to come and go as you need.”

“We have one more thing for you, and then you’re officially off-duty,” Natasha spoke softly, a hint of reverence (or perhaps reservation) in her words. Wanda watched as Clint retrieved a black, opaque plastic box from the backpack he had brought inside.

“I thought you might want your stuff back,” Clint said, looking down at the small tub in his hands. “But you should probably wait until you’re alone to unpack it. Just, you know - what’s inside is probably not any of our business. Everything you’ve been through, or the stuff that followed you through it.”

Except his sentimental words blurred right past her - Wanda was locked on to the box. Her mind was racing with the possibilities of what was inside. Clint said the contents belonged to her, but there really wasn’t much left to her name besides the clothes she’d been wearing. Had they somehow tracked down her childhood possessions? Maybe recovered a few of the items confiscated by HYDRA?

A moment later, Clint had held the box out to her, and it was sitting in her own hands. It wasn’t heavy at all, not in the slightest - puzzling Wanda even further as to what could it could contain.

“All right. Feel free to do whatever you need, then,” Clint announced once the plastic tub had left his grasp. “Sleep. Eat. Maybe sleep some more. Knock yourself out, kid.”

“And Wanda,” Natasha continued in the same tone as before, “we’ll be here if you need anything, okay?”

Wanda looked up to Natasha and nodded silently, knowing that any thanks she might give in reply would probably sound monotonous or ungrateful. It wasn’t that she was without gratitude, of course - but what else could she really need at this point? She’d been given a private place to shower and a comfortable bed to sleep in. That was more hospitality than she had ever received before.

And yeah, she had needed that shower, and she definitely needed to sleep for a while. But washing the dirt off of her face didn’t mean that everything was suddenly right again.

The two agents glanced at each other in brief affirmation before Natasha offered Wanda one last half-smile and the pair passed her by, silently leaving down the other end of the hallway. As the sound of their footsteps faded off, Wanda turned to face the door of her room, glancing it over. She reached for the circular knob and turned it hesitantly, unsure if it would even be unlocked.

But the door opened to her, and she entered the bedroom shyly.

The room was nearly as large as her childhood home had been - and it was certainly bigger than any bedroom she’d seen. The bed inside was the same way, stretching much wider and longer than she could possibly need. A window on the furthest wall illuminated the space with the orange light of the sunset, and long shadows draped over the flat carpet. Besides the bed, and a nightstand on each side of it, there was no furniture inside the room.

Wanda walked slowly over to the large bed and sat tentatively on the edge of the mattress. She faced the window, the fading sunlight washing over her skin and the New York City skyline melting slowly into dark shadow.

She sat silently for a few minutes as the sun slid between skyscrapers, growing closer and closer to the horizon, before remembering her curiosity about the contents of the box. Wanda looked down to the plastic tub in her hands, unbuckling each lock with her thumbs before gently removing the lid and setting it on the bed beside her.

Sitting on top were her black boots, mostly clean but still decorated by spots of mud and dust. Between the boots, a clear sack held her silver jewelry and leather wrist guards. Wanda pulled out the bag and boots, quickly setting the latter on the floor, before finding her red jacket folded up underneath. It was better off than the boots when it came to dirt, but the back and sleeves were still too filthy for her to dare setting it on the bedspread. Instead, she leaned over to hang the jacket over the corner of the headboard.

As she turned back to the box, Wanda expected it to be empty now. She couldn’t think of anything else she had worn into Novi Grad that might need returning. At this point, what else could be inside?

But she was surprised to see a sealed plastic bag tucked into the bottom of the tub, a large white label covered in illegible handwriting stuck on the top. She leaned in closer to get a better look at the messy writing - and after a moment, Wanda recognized a name near the bottom:

‘Maximoff, Pietro’

“Oh, God,” Wanda whispered in horror as her stomach dropped.

These were her brother’s things.

Wanda pulled the bag carefully out of the tub, just barely shifting the contents around before setting it on her lap and placing the empty box at her feet. She felt around the corners of the label, looking for an edge that was peeling, before finally finding a side that hadn’t quite stuck on and using it to rip the sticker off. Most of the plastic came with it, tearing a large hole through the bag and leaving an opening for the contents to spill out.

Reaching through the tear, Wanda grasped onto the first thing she touched - a bundle of soft, navy blue cotton. Pulling it out and shaking it open, she saw that it was the hoodie he had been wearing when they first arrived at the tower. Pietro had taken it with them on the quinjet to Novi Grad, and Wanda had worn it briefly after the temperature dropped while flying over the Atlantic.

She shrugged it on again now, leaving it unzipped but still wrapping it tightly around her frame. The sleeves hung loose past Wanda’s fingertips and around her shoulders.

There was also a pair of silver running shoes packed inside the bag, which Pietro had taken from Stark’s closets. His original shoes were probably still somewhere in the tower, much older and with heavily worn-down soles. Wanda took them out and set them on the floor next to her boots.

All that remained now was a manilla envelope, sealed shut at the top by a copper clasp. Wanda stretched the plastic a bit further before sliding the envelope through the tear she had made, and then returned the bag to her bin. She dropped the tub on the floor and nudged it under the bed with her foot before returning her attention to the last of Pietro’s recovered possessions.

Wanda undid the clasp and opened the top flap of the envelope, holding it open for a quick glance - before pulling out a small, square piece of photo paper.

The back was obviously blank, but regardless, she already knew what she would find when she looked at the other side. Wanda took a deep breath before slowly turning the photo over in her hands, meeting the gaze of four people she had not seen in a decade.

Her mom, with streaky hazel eyes that were always lined with dark makeup and light smile lines around the corners. Her dad, loose curls of hair falling over his forehead and the twinkle of a thin, golden chain around his neck. 

Pietro, too - his young, mischievous face highlighted by a missing front tooth. His hair was already starting to grow long back then, but still not quite past his ears. Mom made him keep it trim enough for school.

And then Wanda saw herself. The delicate freckles that used to splash across her nose. The familiar wave of her hairline, the reminder that she had always tucked it behind her ears. Pietro’s eyes had never quite matched hers, in shape or colour, but their noses had always been nearly identical.

Wanda looked back at Pietro, remembering how hard he had fought to keep this picture. Their parents were killed only a few months after it was taken. This was how they remembered their mom and dad - young, hopeful, in love with each other. Tired. Afraid. Desperate to protect their children.

Pietro refused to let go of the photo, through orphanages and shelters and churches, all the way to Strucker’s lab-prison-HYDRA base hybrid. He’d smuggled, stolen, hidden, and saved the scrap of paper more often than any other childhood possession they’d managed to cling to. Naturally, it was in his pocket during the battle at Novi Grad.

This was probably the only time in the last decade that Pietro had parted with the photograph - and it was only because he was gone. Really, really gone.

Wanda’s throat started to burn, the fire traveling up and sitting just behind her eyes, taunting another round of tears. She set the photograph down gently on her lap, again looking into the envelope, hoping for some mundane object which might distract her from the onsetting grief.

Instead, she saw a short, thin chain glinting up at her from the bottom fold of the package.

“No, no, no…” Wanda trailed off in a whisper to herself, instantly recognizing the chain and slowly reaching inside. She pinched the delicate chain tightly between her fingers, pulling out the familiar necklace and blinking tears away as it glinted in the orange light of the sunset:

A golden six-pointed star, maybe a centimeter wide, hanging lightly off the golden chain and swinging slightly in the air. The clasp was worn and fragile, having been reattached to the necklace half a dozen times, and the edges of the star had their fair share of chips and scratches. In a few places along the chain, the gold had started turning a darker color, wearing away and rusting over the years.

Despite how little Wanda could remember about her childhood, she could always remember the Star of David hanging just below her father’s collar. She didn’t remember exactly how old the heirloom was - only that it had survived being passed down for half a century, and that it had accompanied her father on his escape from the former Soviet Union.

And she remembered Pietro running up to the stretcher, vigorously pushing through paramedics along the way. She remembered watching two bloody, ten-year-old hands frantically unclasping the necklace from around their father’s neck, hardly even recognizing his broken features. She remembered Pietro attaching the chain around his own neck, but she couldn’t remember him ever taking it off again. There it had stayed, untouched and unspoken of.

Until now, as Wanda held it before her own eyes, watching it swing peacefully from side to side - as if everything about this wasn’t agonizingly wrong. As if it wasn’t now Pietro’s own body that was broken and stained with blood, lying on a stretcher somewhere as homes lay in dusty ruins and families weeped for their loved ones.

Wanda dropped the necklace as the flames rose and she finally broke, unable to hold back the tears prodding impatiently at her. The pendant fell to the floor, clinking gently on the hardwood as the first choked cries ripped through her. Wanda began to sob, her eyesight immediately becoming blurred and her lungs tightening painfully. Her eyes flashed between their natural colour and the occasional rich shade of scarlet. She couldn’t seem to keep the anguish inside for a second longer - she couldn’t stop seeing her brothers tiny hands, grasping desperately at their father’s corpse, looking for the one thing he’d been promised. She couldn’t breathe as she thought about the horrifying parallel she was experiencing now.

“Not my brother too,” Wanda gasped violently through tears, bending over so her head lay between her knees, covering her face with her hands. The orange sunlight finally faded as she cried, turning a deeper shade of red before shifting into dark blue moonlight. 

Still, the star sat untouched on the floor, shining faintly with the white city lights which beamed dimly through the large windows of the tower. 

The rest of the world was silent.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading 'hostage'! keep an eye out for the next (and final) installment in this trilogy, I'll be publishing the first chapter soon.
> 
> (also, check back with this story regularly - I may or may not be writing an end credits scene)


End file.
